LITMIR.BIZ

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their heads.”

      He paused to shake his head and I watched his fingers going round and round the rim of the cup, trembling.

      “Two women came chasing out after them, and their voices were, like, so high and shrill. Their arms were flapping around all over the place. Then their neighbours started joining in the noise. You could hear them shouting stuff, but we hadn’t a clue what they were saying, and Joe was picking out some of it, telling us they were yelling ‘innocent, innocent,’ and all sorts of name calling and insults. Soldiers shouted over the lot and it was just a mess, English and Arabic, accents, crying, screaming. Hell, it was just mad.

      “And Eric, his gun pointed from one to another, watching for danger. They took the men over to Joe and I saw them look at that flag on his chest, half picked off, flapping as Joe moved. The men were shoved down to their knees in front of him and they babbled through a barrage of questions.

      “I saw Joe lift his head to the sky. I’d seen him do that before, like he was looking for some quiet to think. As I looked round again, I saw a young boy, about ten years old maybe, come running out from the building, a gun, a damn big one, to his shoulder.”

      The soldier moved his hands away from the cup and his fingers clenched.

      “Above everything else, I heard the boy. I heard one word – Papa.

      “He pointed his gun at Eric. Next to him, Joe froze. Eric’s gun pointed at the boy. His head cocked to one side, his eyes staring down the sights. I pointed my gun at the boy. But, y’know, he was a boy, like Eric’s little brother, playing at being a soldier.

      “Eric moved sideways, away from Joe, and the gun in the boy’s hands, a full-sized gun, not a toy, followed him. It was like slow motion and we all seemed to pause forever.

      “Then one person shot.” He shrugged. “Then everyone did. I fell to the floor, trying to pick out what was happening through all the dust and noise and bodies everywhere, trying not to hit my own men.

      “And as quick as it had started, it stopped. And the shouting and screaming stopped and there was this, this kind of stillness. Everything was a mess. I couldn’t work out what had happened; who’d shot first, who’d shot who. I didn’t dare count the bodies. I looked for my men, and I saw the boy and Eric. Both down. But Joe, he was still standing, he was still alive.”

      All this time I’d been watching his hands and his fingers, his untouched coffee going cold in front of him. And now I felt him look at me, and I lifted my head and saw his eyes, his bright blue eyes, and now they held mine as he spoke. And I blinked and the tears ran down my cheeks, but still this soldier held my gaze now. And through the blurriness I saw his mouth tremble, I saw him try to swallow his emotion and I saw him blink away what I felt sure were tears.

      This soldier.

      “Joe stood up. I shouted at him to get down and take cover but he ignored me. He looked to the boy, then to Eric, and back again. Everyone was shouting at him to get down, but he looked torn, like he didn’t know which way to go. And I’m shouting at the top of my lungs. But he walked, just walked, really calmly, to Eric.

      “I should’ve run to him, I know I should’ve. I should’ve knocked him flat but I just stood there shouting at him to get down.”

      He paused and took a breath.

      “He walked all the way over to Eric, calmly as anything, and knelt down next to him. I started running towards him, saw him put his hand on Eric’s chest and look up to the sky. And then…” His voice lowered. “There was a shot. One single shot and he was down… “He died as I reached him,” the soldier whispered. “It hit him…” I watched him close his eyes, watched his trembling hand lift and his fingers tap his head. “I held him then. I held him while he died.”

      I saw the blood on the soldier’s jacket again, and I knew then, that it was Papa’s blood.

      My papa’s blood.

      

      Whatever happened to Sacha? Part I

      OCTOBER 1999

      Sacha saw the car outside, waiting. Two men standing next to it. She knew who they were, that they had come for her. And she knew that the short walk out of the front doors of the law firm would be the last she would take in freedom for a long time.

      In the middle of the foyer her feet paused and she thought for a moment. What could she do? Where could she go? What options did she have?

      And she realised she had none.

      Her fingers reached up to the necklace resting on her chest, stroking the green stone and the filigreed gold around it. And as she slipped it into her pocket, she stepped forward, across the foyer and out of the front doors. Away not just from the air-conditioning and comfortable office, but from her life and out into the searing heat and stark sunshine, to be taken away to whatever fate waited for her.

      The bag went over her head and Baghdad disappeared from her view.

      She didn’t scream, or shout for help.

      She didn’t fight, or try to escape.

      If they couldn’t have her, she knew they would take her family instead.

      The handcuffs dug into her wrists. The air under the bag grew hot and moist; no space for her breath to escape, or fresh air to find its way in.

      She closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing, keeping herself calm. She thought of her friend Tariq watching her leave the office, worry marking his forehead. She hoped he would call her husband. She hoped her husband would explain everything to their daughter. She hoped one day she would see them again.

      She listened to the street sounds quieten, heard the engine rev, the car accelerate. Behind her eyelids she imagined the journey, feeling and watching them turn, another junction, another road. She imagined the dust blowing up behind them, clogging the air, blocking out what lay behind.

      She knew that soon the car would slow and turn off the main road; that it would stop, the engine would cut and the silence would embrace her. She knew where she would be.

      She thought of the countless people who had travelled this way before her, and how few had made the journey back.

      

      I don’t remember the soldier leaving. I just remember the empty space where he had been, the cup of coffee untouched on the table, and my hope that I had imagined the whole thing.

      That hot July night was the last I spent in my house, my home, Aziz asleep on the floor instead of my papa in his bed.

      I laid in my room with no sleep coming, thinking of all the what-ifs and if-onlys. The conversations I’d had with Papa about leaving Iraq, how the answer was always the same. How I would see clouds skip across his eyes, and see them bring the mist in.

      “We cannot leave yet,” he would reply, “we must wait for Mama to return.”

      I had watched my papa miss my mama for nearly four years. Only since the war began did I see him as a man missing his wife.

      Who had shot him? Where had the bullet come from? A window? A roof? Had it been an Iraqi? A soldier? Why had Papa worked for these people? And I thought again about the American soldier. Surprised by him and his humanity.

      Had it been worth it? Raiding that house? For so many deaths? I’d heard what people did to get to someone, to cause trouble, it happened all the time. Now, instead of reporting you to the Mukharabat, all they had to do was to mention the word ‘terrorism’ within American earshot and nod in someone’s direction. That was enough to get your house ransacked,

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